Page 39 of The Heather Wife
Sorcha moved through the crowd, her head high, a nod here, a touch there. The people parted for her, their faces softening as she passed, and the sight struck him with fresh force. They looked at her as they once had looked at him. With trust. With expectation.
When she reached his side, she did not look at him. But the air shifted, steadier somehow, as though her presence alone anchored him against the tide of whispers.
Calum drew a breath and let his voice rise clear.
“Folk of Strathloch. I have called ye here because the days past have shown us truths we can no longer turn from. When the raid struck, many of our men were away doing battle at Glenbrae. Those left were the old, the bairns… and the women. And I’ll speak it plain—had not my lady, your lady, stood with steel in hand, our losses would have been far greater. That is truth, whether I like it or no.”
He heard the stir of voices ripple through the crowd until one rose above the rest, sharp as an arrow loosed:
“There would have been no losses had ye not given Elspeth the power—and the hope she could claim Lady Sorcha’s place, had she been struck down!”
The words struck like a lash, echoing against the stone. Murmurs of agreement followed, low and bitter. Calum did not flinch, though his chest burned as if the accusation had been branded there. He saw Sorcha’s profile out of the corner of his eye—calm, resolute—and the weight of his failure pressed heavier still.
He forced the words out, raw and heavy.
“Aye. I failed ye. I failed my people—all of ye, the ones who depended on me, the ones who followed me. That shame is mine.” He swallowed hard, his voice rough. “But I will not fail ye again, my kin.”
He paused, his throat tight, before driving on.
“My wife has asked that we allow our women, if they so choose, to train. When we rode to Glenbrae, we left our women, bairns, and the elderly defenseless—and they bore the price of it. Never again will half this clan be left helpless.”
Murmurs rippled through the crowd, some approving, some doubtful. One voice, rough and scornful, called out:
“What has a laundress to do with a bow? Or a milkmaid with a blade? It’s folly, laird!”
Calum’s jaw clenched. Once, he might have agreed. Now, he stood firm.
“Folly?” His voice cracked like thunder. “It would be folly to leave them helpless. The next time raiders come, do ye think they’ll wait until the warriors return? Do ye think your lady alone will be enough to drive them back? Do ye think they’ll spare wives, mothers, sisters? They did not spare them before. We buried our kin—five of them—because I was blind and others betrayed us. That will not happen again.”
The mutters fell quiet. He caught Sorcha’s glance then, sharp and steady, as though measuring the man he was in that moment.
He turned back to the crowd.
“The training yard will be opened. Those who choose to learn will be taught the bow, the stave, and the blade. Duncan, Iain, and Ewan will lend their guidance beside Lady Sorcha. And I will stand there too. Any who scoff may do so now—but when blood is on our gates, ye’ll ken why this was done.”
A hush fell, thicker than before. Then, slowly, a voice rose—a woman’s, clear and bold. Katherine the laundress, her hands still red from her work.
“I’ll take the bow, laird. If my strength can keep even one bairn safe, I’ll no’ waste it.”
Others followed—Morag from the kitchens, Ailis, whom he’d noticed arriving late from her duties in the weaving room, the miller’s daughter, two shepherds’ wives. One by one, their voices rose until the courtyard rang with them.
Calum swallowed against the tightness in his throat. He had feared ridicule, rejection. Instead, he saw determination shining back at him—some hesitant, some fierce, but all real.
For the first time since his return, he felt something shift within him. Not forgiveness. Not yet. But the beginning of it, perhaps.
He let the noise swell, then lifted his hand for silence.
“So be it. At midday, the yard will open. Come as ye will. We will train as one clan.”
When the crowd began to disperse, Sorcha finally looked at him. Her eyes were unreadable, but she gave the faintest incline of her head. A breath loosened in his chest, sharp and aching. It was no smile, no forgiveness. But it was not rejection either.
And for now, that was enough.
Chapter 35
Sorcha
The days that followed settled into a steady rhythm of practice. The clack of staves against posts, the snap of bowstrings, the thunk of arrows striking targets—each sound became part of the keep’s daily hum. The yard smelled faintly of trampled grass and fresh hay from the stables nearby, the air alive with the movement of folk coming and going. Already the days were shortening, the morning frost lingering longer on the stones, and each breath misted the air. Winter crept closer with every dawn, and Sorcha felt its weight as keenly as the bow in her hands. There was little time to harden her women before the cold set in fully, when raids would come like wolves seeking easy prey.
